Chapter 39: The Art Of The Pitch
The sun was warming the red-brick facades along Christopher Street as Marek, Tom Murphy, and Jimmy Williams walked down the cobblestone sidewalk. All three wore their new black three-piece wool suits and flat caps, looking sharp, orderly, and entirely distinct from the usual dock rats and street hustlers of the West Side.
Jimmy adjusted his black vest, looking around at the bustling shopfronts. "So how do we do this then, Marek? Do we just march into every store, slam our hands on the counter, and start listing off our prices?"
Marek smiled faintly, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets as he walked. "No. That’s how traditional salesmen do it, and shopkeepers hate traditional salesmen. They get ten guys a week coming in trying to sugarcoat garbage flour or overpriced nails."
"So what’s the trick?" Jimmy asked, genuinely curious.
"Usually, we step inside, look around, or check their bins if they know us," Marek explained. "The regular shopkeepers prefer it if we don’t bother them with a long sales speech. We check what stock they’re low on, write it down, and suggest what they ought to order for the next drop."
Jimmy brow furrowed, looking completely bewildered. "Wait... you don’t even pitch the goods first? You just tell ’em what they’re missing?"
"If it’s a first-time buyer, sure, we introduce ourselves and show the price list," Marek said. "But for regulars, the prices and the quality do the talking. What we’re selling is convenience. The big Soho and Brooklyn wholesalers inconvenience everyone—they force minimum bulk orders, deliver damaged stock, and raise prices whenever the mood strikes ’em. We deliver exact amounts right to their door on time, with flawless quality. Once a merchant sees that, they trust us to manage their inventory."
Jimmy chewed on that, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. "Shit. Who came up with that? Sounds like a lot of extra work, keeping track of everyone’s shelves."
"Ricky came up with it," Marek said, his voice laced with pride. "When we started, I didn’t get it either. But Ricky explained that building a unique way of dealing with people is what keeps them from ever going back to the old distributors."
Jimmy nodded slowly, gaining a newfound respect for the modern, analytical mind running their syndicate. "How many shops were you two hitting a day back when you were delivering by daylight?"
"Around seventy to ninety storefronts across the whole Village," Marek answered.
Jimmy stopped dead on the sidewalk, his mouth agape. "Seventy to ninety? How in hell’s name did two guys deliver to ninety shops in one day?"
"We didn’t deliver all ninety in one run," Marek clarified, gesturing down the avenue. "Ricky split the workload. One wagon handled the small, quick orders like thread or files, while the other handled the heavy bulk like flour sacks and nail kegs. Every route was mapped out by weight."
"Ricky really knows how to run a business," Jimmy muttered, thoroughly impressed by the sheer efficiency.
They reached the corner of Christopher Street. Marek stopped outside a medium-sized grocery store run by a stocky woman in her thirties wearing a dark wool shawl over her apron.
"Watch how I do it here, Jimmy," Marek whispered. He turned to Tom Murphy. "Tom, take the dry-goods merchant across the street."
Tom nodded smoothly, pulling his small order book from his black suit pocket and stepping across the cobblestones without a hint of hesitation.
Jimmy looked after him, pointing a finger. "Wait, Tom’s going off on his own?"
"He’s taking orders independently now," Marek said. "He knows what he’s doing. Come on."
Jimmy followed Marek into the grocery store. The air inside smelled of earth, raw potatoes, and sweet apples.
The shopkeeper looked up from her wooden counter. When she saw Marek in his clean black suit, her tired, stressed face relaxed into a relieved smile. "Ah, the commission boy! I was hoping you’d come by."
"Morning, Mrs. Gable," Marek said politely, taking off his cap. "How are those winter apples holding up?"
"Don’t speak of them!" Mrs. Gable groaned, waving a flour-dusted hand. "The fruit supplier brought me a crate yesterday that was three cents cheaper than yours, so I thought I’d save a nickel. Opened the bottom layer this morning and found half the core rotten and full of maggots! My regular customers were furious! It’s killing my shop’s reputation."
"That’s why our prices stay solid, ma’am," Marek said smoothly, stepping over to check her potato and cabbage bins. "Pristine stock, every time. If you want, we can put you down for twenty pounds of fresh potatoes and a crate of clean apples on our private night-delivery route. One dollar flat for the weekly delivery fee, dropped right at your back door before you unlock the front."
Mrs. Gable didn’t hesitate. She pulled a silver dollar from her apron pocket and slapped it onto the counter. "Take the dollar! Just make sure those apples don’t have worms!"
Marek noted the order cleanly in his book. As he wrote, Mrs. Gable noticed Jimmy standing near the door in his matching black suit, eyeing the shelves.
"He going to buy something?" she asked, gesturing toward Jimmy.
Marek smiled. "No, ma’am. This is Jimmy, one of our new agents. He’s out watching and learning the route today."
"Ah, a new agent," she said, nodding politely to Jimmy before leaning over the counter toward Marek, her voice dropping into a low, cautious whisper. "Listen, Marek... some men were around here yesterday asking about you boys."
Marek’s hand froze over his ledger. His sharp eyes flicked up. "Men? What kind of men?"
"Young fellows," she muttered, looking toward the window. "Didn’t have a wagon or any stock. They were asking around the block if anyone knew where the ’commission boys’ kept their drayage. I told ’em I didn’t know a thing, but they sounded scary... almost threatening. Told me to let ’em know if you came around."
Jimmy stepped up beside Marek, his expression instantly darkening. "Did they look like suppliers, ma’am?"
"No," she shook her head firmly. "They didn’t look like merchants at all. More like corner toughs."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Mrs. Gable," Marek said, giving her a respectful nod as he closed his book. "We’ll see you tonight with the apples."
Once they stepped back out onto the sunny sidewalk, Marek turned to Jimmy, his brow furrowed. "Do you think it’s the Dusters?"
"Sounds like ’em," Jimmy spat, his hands resting near his vest pockets. "Their collectors usually wander around looking for trouble when their extortion money runs short. But they don’t usually hunt for specific haulers unless someone’s making ’em look bad."
"We need to stick together on this route," Marek said, his jaw tightening. "And we report this to Ricky the second we get back."
"Sounds like a good plan." Jimmy said.
They continued down Christopher Street. Jimmy, having watched Marek’s interaction and feeling a sudden surge of confidence, spotted a small, dreary shopfront two doors down from where Tom Murphy was finishing up a sale.
Above the door hung a faded wooden sign: Second-Hand Attire & Footwear.
Now, Marek and Ricky had actually tried this shop two weeks ago. The owner was a notoriously grumpy sixty-year-old man named Mr. Henderson who sold cheap, second-hand suits and repaired boots. He had practically yelled at Marek for wasting his time, refusing to deal with any new suppliers.
Jimmy didn’t know that. He smoothed his black vest, gave Marek a cocky grin, and pushed the shop door open.
A brass bell clinked dully. The shop smelled heavily of old wool, mothballs, and stale tobacco smoke. Hunched behind a dark pine counter was an old man with a scowling face, thick spectacles, and a needle in his hand.
He looked up, taking in Jimmy’s immaculate, brand-new black three-piece suit.
"What’s the matter, boy?" the old man grumbled raspy, not even setting his needle down. "Did death already claim you, or are you just dressed for your own funeral?"
Jimmy blinked, but instead of taking offense, a wide, easy grin broke across his face. "Thank God, not yet, pop. Still breathing."
"Good for you," the old man scoffed. "Now clear out. I don’t need sharp-dressed dandies cluttering my floor."
"Aren’t you gonna ask if I’m a customer?" Jimmy chuckled, leaning his elbow against the counter.
The old man squinted at him through his thick lenses. "Your suit is clean and brand new. You aren’t in here to buy cheap, second-hand rags that dead men used to wear."
Jimmy let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "You know, pop, you really remind me of my old grandpa. He had that exact same sweet disposition."
The old man grunted, turning back to his stitching. "Get to the point or get out."
"I’m representing a wholesale commission house," Jimmy said, his voice turning surprisingly sharp and persuasive. "I can supply you with high-quality, brand-new suits and leather shoes for dirt-cheap. You won’t have to buy your stock off dead men anymore."
The shopkeeper stopped his needle, looking up with a skeptical sneer. "And why would I want brand-new suits? My customers are poor neighborhood folk. They buy second-hand because it’s cheap."
"Yeah, but nobody likes wearing their dead neighbor’s coat," Jimmy argued smoothly, leaning forward. "If you put brand-new, high-grade suits on your racks at a price that’s only a few nickels higher than your second-hand gear, people will flock in here thinking they’re getting Wall Street quality. Your sales double, you make a real profit, and you don’t have to spend all day sewing up torn sleeves."
The old man glared at him. "If I cared about maximum profit, boy, I’d be running an extortion racket. I buy second-hand clothes so the poor folk in this parish can wear something decent for a nickel. I give ’em away if I have to."
Jimmy paused. The street hustler in him respected the old man’s stubborn principles. He softened his tone, offering a genuine nod. "I respect that, pop. Everyone’s gotta make a living, but how are you supposed to keep this shop open for the neighborhood if your shelves barely attract a soul?"
"I don’t need a lecture on how to live my life from a kid in a funeral suit," the old man grunted.
"Just give it a try," Jimmy insisted, pushing his small order book across the wood. "Order one crate of new wool jackets and a dozen pairs of leather shoes. Hang ’em up front. If they don’t sell in a week, you tell me to go to hell and I’ll never darken your door again."
The old man stared at the notebook, then glared at Jimmy’s persistent, grinning face. He let out a long, heavy sigh, tossing his needle onto the counter. "You are the most persistent, annoying mosquito I’ve ever met."
Jimmy beamed. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
"Put down one crate of dark wool jackets," the old man grumbled, picking up his spectacles. "And if they don’t sell, I’m throwing a boot at your head."
"Got it," Jimmy laughed, scribbling the order down. "Want some new leather belts and shoes to go with ’em? So a man can buy a full set in one stop?"
The merchant sneered wildly. "Oh, sure! Why don’t you put a house, a wife, a warm meal, and a job on your little list while you’re at it? A bit of everything!"
"I’ll take that as a yes on the belts," Jimmy chuckled, writing it down.
The old man turned his back to fetch a rag, a subtle, reluctant smile cracking his grumpy face when Jimmy wasn’t looking, though he muttered loudly, "Persistent little bastard..."
"Tell you what, pop," Jimmy added, leaning over the counter. "Since you remind me of my grandpa, I’ll pay your one-dollar weekly night-delivery fee out of my own pocket."
The old man paused, turning around. His sharp eyes narrowed. "Night delivery? Are your goods smuggled, boy?"
Jimmy didn’t lie. He kept his face completely steady. "Technically, yeah. Customs issues at the piers. If you don’t want smuggled stock, you can cancel the order right now."
The old man scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Cancel? Why would I cancel? The legal suppliers sell overpriced trash that falls apart in a month! So... you’re those ’commission boys’ everyone’s been whispering about?"
Jimmy offered a sharp, proud grin. "Spot on."
"Hmph," the old man muttered, resting his hands on the counter. "If you’re bringing the wagon tonight... can you sneak in a single bottle of good Irish whiskey for me? I’m tired of paying five cents a glass at the saloon when I could drink in my own chair."
Jimmy laughed out loud. "Consider it done, pop. We supply the local saloons anyway, so one bottle of Irish is no trouble."
The merchant let out a soft grunt, a genuine glint of respect in his eyes. "Now I see why the neighborhood likes you boys. Get out of my shop."
"See you tonight, Mr. Henderson!" Jimmy called out, stepping back onto the sunny sidewalk with a massive, victorious grin.
Tom Murphy was waiting outside by a lamppost. Seeing Jimmy emerge, Tom offered a smirk. "Let me guess... old Henderson told you to take a hike? Marek couldn’t even stand in there for sixty seconds without the old man throwing a ruler at him."
Jimmy didn’t say a word. He simply held up his order book, pointing to the freshly written line for one crate of jackets, twelve pairs of shoes, belts, and a bottle of Irish whiskey.
Tom’s smirk vanished. His jaw literally dropped. "Wait... you actually made a sale to Henderson?!"
Jimmy adjusted his black flat cap, smoothing the lapels of his suit with supreme swagger.
"I’m the great Jimmy Williams, Tom," Jimmy declared with a wink. "I don’t leave empty-handed."